


Another Music In A Different Kitchen

by Blucifer



Series: Wading Through Your Ventilator [2]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Acceptance, Anal Sex, Coming Out, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Family Issues, Growing Up Together, Identity Issues, M/M, Meet the Family, Moving In Together, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Relationship Negotiation, Slice of Life, This is technically a sequel fic but you don't have to read that to understand this, condom negotiation, grunge fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-14 13:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21016709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blucifer/pseuds/Blucifer
Summary: Changbin wants him right now, but not in the way that he wants Chan when they’re in his parents’ house in Koreatown. Because there, he wants him like Chan is an addiction. Wants him, despite the fact that his chest always feels tight with panic when they’re there.  Wants him, but not in the way that he wants him when they’re in the hostel in Venice. There, sex exists in the margins of their lives before the alarm goes off for work and the moments between brushing their teeth and passing out for the night. Wants him, but not in the way that he wants him in the bathhouses of West Hollywood where they both can get off on lingering eyes and the fact that everyone in the room wants them and they'll only have each other.No, the way that he wants Chan in a stiflingly small studio in Echo Park is different.Or: A happily ever after story.





	1. Chapter 1

It would be so great if Mrs. Bang  _ didn’t  _ answer the phone right now. Changbin leans into the phone booth, but covers the receiver with his hand because he can’t think of anything worse than being considered a mouth breather. 

"Hello? Venice Hostel." Mrs Bang's bright shining voice is interrupted with a demonic wail and what sounds like a bar brawl in the background. 

Business as usual at the hostel. 

Fantastic. 

"Hi Mrs. Bang." His voice sounds wobbly even over the crackling line. "Is uh-is Chan there?" 

"Hello Binnie," and it's quite obvious, the irritation in her voice. 

Then the familiar and muffled sound of, "Chan, it's for you." 

"Hello?"

"Hey. Wanna come pick me up for work? The Tercel is um…" Changbin looks over his shoulder, catching himself in the phone cord, the flexible-rigid metal coated cord becomes a crude garrote. “Damn it,” as he steps out of the tangled mess and turns his attention fully to the car. Steam billows out from underneath the radiator, well whatever is left and didn't boil over into the radioactive green puddle below the car. "Fucked?"

"Where are you?"

“Some Marathon station over by campus.” 

"That's so far." 

"Well if you can't pick me up, could you cover my shift?"

Chan interrupts abruptly, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *

"What about this one?" Changbin circles the ad with a dying bic, more scratch than ink against ashy thin newsprint 

"Umm," Chan pops the bubble on the top of a large cup of pineapple doused in chilli sauce. Lapping at the grainy red liquid on his thumb, "I know where that is. Off Wilshire. Listen, I think,"reaching around the counter he grabs another paper. This one in English, "we should just avoid Koreatown entirely." 

Changbin's dissatisfied grunt speaks volumes without words.

Chan chases a wedge of pineapple around the plastic cup rim, selects a piece of fruit and takes a bite. To make amends for his statement, Chan offers the rest of the wedge to Changbin, who accepts. Eyes never leaving the Korean paper, Changbin misses, sauce dabbling the place where his lower lip meets his chin. 

Chan is quick to wipe it up with the pad of his thumb and lap that up too. 

A customer comes to the counter with a tube of overpriced sunscreen, a bottle of diet coke, and a bag of corn chips. 

Chan steps aside and let's Changbin access the register. 

Although Changbin rings him up and makes change, it doesn't stop habit from taking over. Mentally, he’s already calculated the total, 8.74 and made change. One dollar two dimes because his sister stole the quarters for laundry an hour ago, one nickel and a penny. 

"You get way too much satisfaction from that," Changbin says slapping the register closed. Changbin has lasted about a month as a formal employee, which is about twenty-nine days longer than Chan expected. Ever since graduation his parents have been down one indentured servant. Even though they have to  _ consistently  _ pay Changbin, and Changbin  _ has  _ to keep the store open, can’t lock up due to any old whim like good surf or a nearby food truck, it seems to work. For now. "Anyway, there is some benefit to finding a place there. Like, I don't want to have to drive an hour to get something decent to eat." 

There’s plenty of other reasons too, for not straying farther than Korea Town, but Changbin doesn’t have to voice them. Chan already knows that they’re weighty in Changbin’s back pocket, knocking his perfect stride just off balance. Anyone else would miss it, but Chan not only notices, he can’t stop staring. “By the way, I went over there. Um, on lunch.” 

Changbin arches a single brow at him. The expression, questioning, like Changbin isn’t certain if he should be surprised, or grateful, or angry, or all three. So, he looks to Chan to decide how he should feel. 

“Remember? Your mom wanted someone to go over there while he was at his doctor’s appointment and rearrange the furniture. She had this giant...entertainment system thing that she ordered and had to have it put together. Anyway,” Chan keeps talking because even though he hasn’t done anything wrong, it over explanation feels like the right thing to do. “It was close by work, and you haven’t been out there for awhile because your car is fucked, and this weekend is out because because--” 

“Yeah I know, but--” Changbin pinches the bridge of his nose while simultaneously breathing through it. The disgruntled sound isn’t directed at Chan, or his own parents, but something inward and intangible. Changbin carries with him a great deal of newly minted frustration in trying to understand that his parents are aging. Chan hasn’t yet experienced it himself. His mom still shops at Espirit and his dad just bought a new pair of roller blades. But he’s been around Mr. and Mrs. Seo enough to see it with them. “If he wasn’t such an old bastard about it.” 

Mr. Seo had a heart attack just after New Years Day. For the most part, he’s recovered, but every second Changbin spends in Venice now brings the omnipresent filial guilt that they both carry with them to the forefront of Changbin’s mind. 

But it’s still worth saying that the world gets much much smaller as soon as you cross 3rd street. "Everybody knows everybody else. I don't want your mom finding out because someone's cousin's girlfriend's sister saw us holding hands or something." 

"Kinky." Changbin rebuffs. "Everybody in Venice already knows that we’re fucking. What makes you think it’s different over there?"

“Almost everyone," and then quickly redirecting what Chan immediately identifies as the cloaked beginning of a recurring argument. Folding back the pages of the paper, Chan struggles to not dribble pineapple juice onto the pages. 

“Can’t we just live in Felix’s basement or something?” 

Chan ignores the comment in favor of peeling back the pages to the want ads. Skimming the faded newsprint, this paper yields even less. Too expensive. Too far away.  _ Cozy,  _ which is code for claustrophobic. “What about this one?” Chan’s chilli and pineapple covered finger lingers just above, but never touches the newsprint. 

“Huh?” Changbin, always graceful, presses a chili covered finger right over top. 

“Ah, now we have to buy it, Changbin!” 

“They’re trying really hard to hide where this apartment actually is, huh? Like I’d bet money this is off Fulton, which is just asking for broken windows and casual muggings.” And then, like Chan’s prior complaints just registered. “No, we’ll just put the paper on the bottom of the stack.” 

“Alright. What if we went to look at the one I found a flier for the other day?” 

Are you going to drop that much on the deposit? Because there’s no way I can afford that right now. Did I tell you how much a new radiator is going to cost?” 

Nipping the budding argument, and just in time, the bell over the store door jingles in interruption. It’s followed immediately by the larkish, albeit thickly accented call of, “Channie! Binnie!” 

Chan’s eyes barely register the fire red hair approaching the counter and baby sling wrapped around a thin frame, but he knows who it is immediately. “Nellie!” he and Changbin both cry at once. 

There’s a scuffle to get out from behind the counter. Changbin darts around and runs into the beef jerky standee. Chan tries to go over the counter and knocks over the “take a penny, leave a penny.” 

Nellie lived and worked in the hostel for almost six months on a student visa. Then, she met a man named Lars, also living in the hostel and working on student visa. The next chapter of the story is wrapped in a baby sling around her front. 

“Oh my god, she’s getting so big,” Chan gestures to the infant, who stares at him with wide blue eyes. 

“I see she’s got her uncle Changbin’s nose.” 

“Ah. It’s good to see you Changbang,” and she giggles at the collective nickname given to them when they barely knew each other, but sat out on the balcony for hours and got drunk off of Frangelica and Coke. That night feels like a lifetime ago. Chan supposes that it kind of was an actual lifetime ago. After all, baby Lotta didn’t exist back then, and certainly exists in the here and now, smiling and cooing at both of them. 

“What? This isn’t correct.” She says gesturing to Changbin behind the counter. 

“Yeah, I work here now,” Changbin responds. “Diet coke? Sour straws? On the house baby.” 

Once Nellie starts laughing she doesn't stop. 

Chan pulls a tallboy from the cooler and pays for it in exact change, $1.25. It’s three in the afternoon, but they  _ have  _ to split it for old times sake. So they do, passing around the can, tab turned to the side. Nellie’s pink lipstick staining the rim and none of them caring as much as they should about drinking off one another. 

Like taking a sip of cheap, ice cold beer catching up is surprisingly good. Maybe it isn’t that difficult when they’ve been apart just long enough to know where to begin. There’s the baby, and his new job, which he’d rather not flaunt but Changbin flaunts for him. During the course of the conversation, the condensation covered can gets set upon the newsprint spread out over the counter and leaves damp concentric circle rings in the want ads. 

Noticing the scratched ballpoint pen that dots the page, Nellie asks them with an excited smile, “You guys are finally doing it?” 

Like taking a sip of cheap, tepid beer that may be more spit than alcohol by this point, the more they talk, the more difficult it becomes. 

“Mama and Papa Bang are gonna miss having you two around. You kind of run the place.” Her message is intentionally and heavily coded, like the color and pattern of handkerchief stuffed into the back pocket of a strange man’s Levi’s. Maybe that’s why they’ve always gotten along. After all, pregnant women make great designated drivers to the video arcade and slightly hungover gay men make great chapperones to doctor’s appointments. 

Implicit is the message,  _ do your parents know?  _

“They’ll get by.”  _ Well, we haven’t told them. We’re not exactly sure how. _

But it goes both ways. She asks if Changbin’s picked a major yet and he says, “today? It’s literature.” Changbin pushes back, “do you still need my 2400 textbook?” Implicit is the message,  _ were you able to fix your visa stuff?  _

“Not this semester.”  _ Things are so fucked up right now Changbin.  _

The three of them know the truth, more than anyone, about each other. Why doesn’t the truth make it easier to be honest? 

* * *

“You didn’t tell me that there was a  _ swab  _ involved.” Jisung’s face is paper white as he leaves the examination room and joins him and Changbin in the waiting room, slumping into one of the sterile plastic upholstered chairs. 

“I did omit that information,” Chan responds. 

“He thought you wouldn’t come if you knew,” Changbin interjects quickly. His eyes never leave the magazine that he’s reading. Something’s wrong, and Changbin wears it on his sleeve. “The best part is that after they read you back the results they have the nerve to ask you for thirty-five dollars.” Something’s wrong, and Changbin conceals it like a hickey on his neckline. 

Poorly concealed and painfully obvious, Chan knows that it’s there. However, rolling back the scratchy cloth that Changbin has shrouded himself in is second priority right now. Because even if Changbin is doing it poorly right now, they’re  _ supposed  _ to be here in support of their friend. 

“Thirty-five? I do not have that kind of money right now.” 

“Hani,” Chan sits between Changbin and Jisung. Right hand resting on Changbin’s knee, he breaks contact to grab Jisung’s hand and offer comfort to him knowing full well that the weight of Changbin’s iresome gaze will soon be upon him. “I’ll pay for it. Don’t worry. Anyway, it’s good that we’re here.” 

Changbin does in fact look at him, albeit not with suspicion or jealousy. No, somehow it’s far worse than a look of incredulity, or mistrust. Through lidded, indirect eyes, Changbin looks at him with meticulous closeness. Like he’s trying to decide whether or not vulnerability is worth the risk. 

“Yeah, I haven’t had this done in a long time. Since before I met Chan,” Changbin confesses. 

Realization creeps over him slowly, subtly, not unlike the intensity of Changbin’s gaze. For him? The last time was maybe...God it was with Felix, and they were still fucking around. Carry the four, account for the fact that he’s still mislabeling checks...It’s  _ very much _ 1996 right now...Oh god three years. “It’s been a long time for me too.” 

“So, we probably needed to do this.” 

“But,” They’ve done every single stupid thing between them, and nobody should actually be taking lessons from them. Even though he’s Felix’s age...He still feels like he should  _ that  _ responsible hyung. So he gives Jisung what every person wants while their in the health department waiting room, unsolicited advice. “I mean, we’re always protected. You have to start wrapping your dick up after this.”

“Every single time?” 

“I mean, yeah?” Chan responds. 

“But you guys are like, married. And you still? Every single time.” 

“Yeah,” Changbin cuts in. 

There it is. The slight inflection in his voice gives it away, as does the familiar expression that Changbin gives Chan. The one that says that he knows better, whatever transgression he’s just committed. 

“Peter?” The nurses voice interrupts. At least she’s just as bright in her tone  _ now  _ as she was twenty minutes ago when she told him that this  _ might  _ burn a little bit. 

Changbin laughs at the use of his English name. Chan manages to hold it back. Barely. 

“Can they go back with me?” 

They can’t. Patient confidentiality. But he and Changbin both squeeze his hand and tell him that he’ll be fine despite the fact that they have absolutely no way of knowing whether or not this is the truth. 

Without Jisung’s constant chatter, the waiting room falls silent. Nothing but the ticking clock, bearing a promotional image for a drug that he’s never heard of before, echoes throughout the room, rings in his ears, and funnels inside of his brain. 

“I was always careful.” 

“Me too.” Changbin responds, but adds quickly, in the way that Changbin always does when he’s right and he knows that he’s right no matter how badly it might blow apart the whole situation and lead to an argument. “So says every other guy with the clap or something worse.” 

“Really though. It’s been awhile. Since I’ve fucked without a condom.” 

“I’ve never.” Changbin admits. “Like when I moved here I was so afraid of--” Changbin tosses back the copy of  _ Newsweek  _ that he’d been thumbing through. Trades it in for a Highlights magazine from the end table, passing over a  _ Men’s Health  _ and a  _ GQ _ , and copy of  _ Esquire  _ that he’s pretty certain is dated from last year. Flipping open the first few pages Changbin sees that the hidden picture puzzle is ruined by having the answers circled and he closes the magazine with a huff of absolute disgust. “Did I ever tell you about the guy that used to regular Mid-Towne Spa?” 

Changbin’s deflecting now. No doubt about it. “No, do I want to know?” 

“He had this little kit, and would set up shop in one of the shower rooms and just ask people to stick metal rods down his dick hole.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

“Not as disgusting as--” 

“Christopher?” The nurse interrupts. 

Jisung emerges from the examination room triumphantly yelling, in English, to god and the waiting room, “It’s just a UTI!” 

A poster with photos of advanced stage syphilis is tacked to the wall. Right next to it is a realistic model of the female reproductive system. And while he can’t stop looking at these horrible things, he has to listen to this woman tell him that even though everything is fine, he really should be more careful. 

Changbin just told him that he’s  _ never.  _ More careful how?

* * *

“How do we know this girl again?” Changbin twists the rear view mirror towards him and checks his hair, smoothing out an unruly cowlick and pursing his lips at himself in satisfaction. 

“Hey, I need that,” Chan yanks the mirror back, glances into it to change lanes, and then fluffs his own hair forward. “I mean, I went to school with her. Kennedy High and then we had a few classes together our first semester of community college.” 

“Like, you’re friends?” 

“I mean, I say hi to her when I see her around I guess.” 

“But she’s not like some of the other girls right. She’s not like Jamie who like actually hangs. Right?” 

“Well, no,” Chan taps his horn interrupting the flow of their conversation. “You would know her better if she did.” Rush hour traffic somehow spilled into a Saturday afternoon. Car slowed to a crawl, he’s free to hold Chan captive to every thought that enters his exhaust fume filled brain. “How many girls with fiances do you know that actually hang out?” 

“Okay, so how do we know her? Your parents are going. My parents are going.” 

“Maybe our parents know him.” 

“Him?” This opens up a whole new world of possibility for Changbin. 

The sun, liberated from the shackles of the mid-morning marine layer taunts her freedom and radiates down upon them from high in the sky. Amplified through the cracked windshield of the Nova, Changbin feels acutely aware of how late they’re going to be. 

Loosens his tie with the promise that he’ll be able to get it back into place and  _ just  _ as smooth as Chan tied it earlier. 

Through his parted lips, the thick and toxic taste of ozone coats his tongue. Much to his relief, his stash of jolly ranchers remain in the cup holder stash, only partially melted. He unwraps a blue raspberry one before starting on a green one for Chan. Sugar doesn’t eliminate the taste, simply melds with the acrid flavor of exhaust. 

Are they gonna be that to somebody someday? 

Not married. Changbin isn’t stupid. 

For them, this is the most important day of their lives. 

Stuck to the fridge at home with a DisneyLand magnet and taped to the monitor of the hostel computer respectively, for Changbin, Jihyo and Daniel are just names on embossed invitations. But, it’s implicit and it’s common knowledge and everyone has the freedom to talk about it, even if the bride and groom are just ink on ivory colored card stock. 

* * *

Chan is the kind of person who’s usually down for a drink. Modelo with lunch at the taqueria, tepid domestic when they shoot the shit with Swedish boys at the hostel, vodka tonic when they go out dancing. Chan is the kind of person who’s usually down for  _ a  _ drink. Such that even if he makes a reasonable dent in a six pack over the course of an evening, his gait stays smooth, his expression warm and never glassy, voice confident, steady, and never too loud. As if he’d never had more than one drink to begin with. 

So often does he leave the flushed cheeks and pitchy giggles for Changbin, that when Changbin sees these things in his boyfriend he recognizes them right away. 

The satin white garter stretched haphazardly around his head, pushing his hair away from his face is also a dead giveaway. 

“Your face is redder than a baboon’s ass.” But it’s instant, and it’s electric, the way that Chan makes a smile crawl across his face. Asymmetrical at first, his mouth pulls into a smirk and then slowly, the other side is pulled into a curled, joyous grin. 

Chan, having not yet processed Changbin’s comment, recites the single thought he’s trapped between his fingers and carried across the sunburst patterned burgundy and gold carpet. “Your mom sold him a house,” and then, “And her mom and my mom go to the same hairdresser. So that’s technically how we know them.” And then finally, like he’s just finally processed what Changbin said earlier, “I’m not red. I’m glowing.” 

Betrayed by his body, Chan stumbles the half step in distance that remains between them. 

Changbin steadies Chan, pulling him discreetly at the belt loop so that they stand side by side against the proud mahogany, horseshoe shaped bar. 

“Yeah?” Changbin’s response is delayed, to the point of being disingenuous. Funny, considering just how much it bothered him in the car, he absolutley doesn’t give a single fuck now that Chan has an actual answer. He’s just tired of talking about ink names on paper. Especially when there’s something much more interesting to brood over. 

Their families, assigned not by fate, but by the intricate nuances of social milieu known only by the mother of the bride, were assigned seats at the same table. 

Since when were their parents close enough for that? They met at Chan’s graduation party. Saw each other again after Changbin’s parents insisted that they have people over for the 4th of July to celebrate moving from the cramped apartment to an equally cramped shotgun house. 

What do they even have to talk about? 

Changbin finds no easy answers as he studies the two couples at the table. Although their conversation cannot be heard over the cacophonous sound of the party, if he had to guess, based upon gestures and expressions, Mr. Bang  _ insists  _ on taking a photo of his parents with his Polaroid instant camera. His parents hold pose while Chan’s siblings argue over a dented GameBoy in the foreground. 

And it means something. It has to really. That he was once frozen by fear because Chan had the neverge to walk up to his apartment and knock on the door and now this is happening right in front of them. Nothing, absolutely nothing that they can do to stop it. 

Not just close now, but enmeshed. 

Changbin searches for the answers in the white and red honeycomb glass over the bar and faux stained glass windows that dot the back wall but there are none to be had. 

It’s almost like Chan can feel the tension of his clenched jaw and the bite of his fingernails digging into the soft skin of his palms before Changbin can feel the tension himself. “You look damn fine tonight.” Spoken from the side of Chan’s mouth. 

Chan makes it feel like they’re the only ones in the room. Tension drains from his body, out the ends of his slightly oversized suit jacket sleeves and down the crease of his slacks to be lost forever in the fibers of the carpet. 

“You look pretty good too.” 

Because Chan, in fact, does look great. The outlet suit  _ almost  _ fits him just right. Not yet properly tailored, but purchased at the correct size because it’s unlikely that he’ll grow and he needed something for job interviews. Looks great, regardless of the fact that Chan couldn’t find his new leather belt and he had to pull a pair of clip on suspenders from the hostel lost and found. Changbin cannot bring himself to admit that he knows for a fact the belt is kicked under his bed at home. A quickie between job interviews. 

Somehow, Chan’s face becomes redder. His voice slurred, yet sheepish, “ah, no. I have a baboon ass-face.” 

He’s usually the one slurring into the lobe of Chan’s ear, peppering him with acrid alcohol breath kisses. Because of this, he’s not used to this role reversal, and he’s not quite sure how to be the benevolent bastard that Chan’s mastered. So, he insists, “trade.” Shoving the old fashioned that he’s been nursing for the better part of an hour because it tastes too bitter into Chan’s hand.

Chan immediately takes a sip of the drink. 

Changbin hooks a finger into the cheap white satin. The fabric springs free from Chan’s hairline, and Changbin immediately moves to smooth down Chan’s hair. He knows that it’s absolutely futile between cow licks and boyish curls, but it gives him an excuse, no matter how flimsy, to touch Chan in a moment such as this when nobody is watching but anyone could see. 

“You have to marry me now,” Syrup thick voice dangerously close to his ear, Changbin feels simultaneously paralyzed in fear and boldly captivated in the way that only Chan can make him feel. Chan is so close, he can taste the scent of alcohol on his breath. His lips, usually chapped from the sand and the sun, are made simultaneously dry and puffy in the way that only alcohol can parch lips. “Look--” 

And the next thing he knows, his drunk boyfriend is assaulting one of the centerpieces that dot the bar like floral punctuation. From it, he pulls a fistful of orange roses and puffed baby’s breath and shoves them into Changbin’s hand. “You even caught the bouquet, Binnie.” 

Suddenly, Changbin is acutely aware of the slimy, damp feeling of wet stems in his hand. The chlorophyll scent of fresh cut flowers overpowers the smell of alcohol and Chan’s knock off Armani fragrance. 

And it only confirms what he’s already known. Brings into full force the queasy feeling he’s abated since he and Chan were hastily shoved into the last pew seconds before the bride walked down by a very angry bridal party. The thought is chased by orange satin bows and white garters and baby’s breath. 

Chan isn’t the same person that he met on the boardwalk two years ago. He’s not the same person that Chan met on the boardwalk two years ago either. Much like everyone else around them, they’re changing.

Scarier still, the way that they look to other people is changing. 

* * *

Changbin puts on the big damn smile he’s kept neatly folded behind his pocket square all night. Then, he approaches the table and grabs for Chan’s suit jacket and folds it neatly over the arm. “Chan and I are going to go out for some fresh air.” 

“Ah, that’s probably good for him,” Mrs. Bang notes. Perched between her index and middle finger is a silver banded Marlboro Ultra Light. Red cherry ember pointed at him, he can’t help but notice. He knows that Mrs. Bang’s bright colored lipstick prints are usually left against the slender green and pink filter of a menthol Misty. Knows for a fact,from many trips to the corner store, that  _ his  _ mom smokes Marlboros. 

“He’s dunk,” his sister chimes in over the midi melody of Kirby in Dreamland. Never once looks up from the Gameboy. 

“Binnie, you should go get him a coffee--” His mother reaches for her pocket book to grab him money. Like she wants to remind him that whatever it is that he’s actually planning is probably the stupidest kind of risky. “There’s that place down the way.” 

“Mom, I don’t want your money.” 

Chan’s mom nods, seemingly in agreement, although her attention has turned to breaking up a fight between the younger Bang siblings. 

Like everybody knows, but won’t tell him that they know. 

Outside, the sun has raked her fingers across the wet painted blue sky revealing hues of pink, purple, and orange underneath. The air still tastes thick, hot with asphalt and ozone, but it almost feels welcome. Heat soothes clammy, air condition abused skin. The scent of the city, although pungent, is a welcome relief from the acrid odor of rich wedding food and second hand smoke. 

“We’re ditching?” Chan almost sounds disappointed.  _ Almost.  _

Changbin undoes the silk knot rested at the hollow of his throat, and there’s absolutely no way he’s going to be able to unfuck it. Chan will have to retie it the next time they have to do something fancy. 

“I know, and we didn’t even get to cha-cha slide.” 

“Oh don’t worry. We have that wedding two weeks from now in Pasadena,” Chan supplies with genuine drunken sympathy. 

“Wonderful.” 

Parked three or four blocks away from the reception, Chan takes the time to fish a crisp one dollar bill from his wallet for every transient person they see seated in the door frames of closed shops. Each time he folds his wallet neatly back into his pocket, even if he can see the next person from the corner of his eye. On and on until his singles are gone. 

The whole way, Changbin keeps his palm splayed wide across Chan’s back to steady him. 

They spy a cat pressed against the glass storefront of a shoe shop and wiggle their finger tips against the glass. 

He loves Chan. That isn’t a problem anymore. Hasn’t been in a long time. But malcontent still tugs at his heart. He feels that way more often than not when he thinks about Chan and the future. The only thing to do when he feels this way is to take Chan’s hand. Chan, confused at the sudden contact, stumbles ever so slightly. 

Changbin smooths his thumb across Chan’s palm in reassurance. 

“There’s no way in hell you’re driving.” Changbin says as Chan pulls his keys from his pockets and spills the contents of his wallet onto the sidewalk. 

“I’m not. I want to--” But he hands over the keys to the car anyway. Changbin unlocks it, but when he moves to lower himself into the driver’s seat Chan interrupts, “wait.” 

“Wait what?” 

“Turn the thing on like...where it’s on but it’s not?”

“Kay.” Changbin does as he’s told and turns the key into the auxiliary mode. Chan, in a fit of drunk-eagerness leans over him in the driver’s seat to reach for the carrier filled with cassettes and all but falls face first into the bench seat. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Just a second-ah.” 

“You’re crushing my dick, dick.” 

“That’s not all I’ll be--” 

“Fuck off.” 

Somewhere in the rustle of clothing, knees flying into stomachs, and spit dampened fingers flying into ears, Chan manages to pop a tape into the cassette deck. Only then does he extract himself from the front seat, and then tugs on Changbin’s arm. “You made me leave before we got to dance.” 

“No,” but he’s already stepping out of the front seat and back out onto the cracked blacktop parking lot. 

Chan pulls him close, and they both sway in disjointed imbalance. 

“Please?” 

“I don’t know how. It’s embarrassing.” He pushes against Chan’s stomach for good measure without trying to actually put any distance between them. It’s not about winning, it’s about pretending that he ever stood a chance of actually saying no in the first place. “I don’t wanna.” 

“But babe, it’s our song.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

They’ve gone to five weddings this summer so far, and not a one of them had a first dance to  _ Pop That Pussy  _ by 2LiveCrew, what a goddamn shame.  In the flickering glow of the overhead street lights, Chan’s skin looks dampened with sweat and almost sallow, but he’s never looked better to Changbin.  Changbin’s cheeks ache from smiling. 

They don’t so much dance as they argue without words. Chan desperately tries to lead in some kind of horrible dance and Changbin desperately trying to keep him from falling backward and busting his ass on the pavement. 

The whole thing lasts for seconds, but feels like hours in the orange syrup sunset. 

If he keeps his fists balled into the fabric of Chan’s shirt, then it’s okay if he leans his face against Chan’s shoulder. It’s okay he moves his feet a half step, and then maybe another half step. Touching Chan’s body is electric. Usually Changbin gets hit with fifty thousand volts when he purposefully touches the live wire. Now, something more subdued builds between them. Silk rubbed against cotton rubbed against polyester, cool blue static crackles across their bodies. The jolt saved for when they brush up against something metallic and least expect it. 

“You love me Binnie?” 

They don’t say it very often, because they know. Chan’s question is rhetorical. 

Chan closes his eyes before leaning in for a disastrously sloppy kiss, and it’s easy to intercept him. Changbin’s fingers slide easily into the scant place between his and Chan’s lips. He can feel the curl of Chan’s smile against his fingers. 

Chan’s so close now that he looks blurry to Changbin, but he can still detect a glimmer of frustration in his expression. Breath hot on his fingers. 

“You're fucking drunk." he word sounds rough in his throat as he lowers his fingers. 

With the tip of his finger, he pushes Chan down into the bench seat of the Nova. Changbin settles between his legs, half kneeling on the bench seat and half standing in the door of the car. 

Changbin makes him wait, for no real reason other than he can and old habits die incredibly hard. It isn’t until Chan pulls him forward by the lapels that Changbin finally tastes the astringent taste of alcohol upon Chan’s mouth and the sweetness of simple syrup. Gets drunk on the way Chan drinks him in with every cautious, yet drunk-reckless swipe of his tongue. 

Building between them for hours, it is only now that Changbin suddenly, and urgently feels like he  _ needs  _ Chan. Stunted as the response may be, Chan will know that its anything but hollow. When the kiss finally breaks, "Yeah, yeah I do.” 

* * *

“I’m your private dancer.” Alcohol numbed fingers make it impossible to undo the buttons, but the part of his mind that knows better prevents him from popping them off completely. So he settles for fisting the cloth and lifting his shirt high so that he can tease Changbin. 

“A dancer for money.” 

Changbin slips his tie, still partially tied over his head and flings it to the floor. The chance that he was going to strip all of these fancy clothes off of them and hang them carefully in the closet was quickly dashed whenever Changbin piggy backed him inside. From his perch on Changbin’s back he tried to reach over and get the mail while Changbin fidgeted with the keys, and the whole thing sent them careening into the bushes. Their shirts are stained with green. 

Changbin unceremoniously dumped him  _ and  _ the mail onto the bed and kneels next to him on the bed. Now he's close, but not close enough. 

“I don’t have any bills. I had to spend all mine to buy your drunk ass tacos because you gave all yours away. Remember?” 

Chan’s voice rises to a higher volume to sing over him. “Do anything that you want me to do.” 

Changbin fists his hands into his pockets and drops a few coins onto Chan. A few down his shirt, one cheekily in his pants pocket. Chan twists away when he tries to shove a quarter down the hem of his pants. 

“Are you saying I’m cheap?” Chan feigns offense. 

For a moment, all Changbin does is watch in smug satisfaction Chan writhes in his shirt, like he knows something that Chan doesn’t. Like he’s got it all figured out just because in this rare instance, Chan’s the one with cheeks flushed hot with alcohol and arousal. He really wants to kiss that stupid smug look off of his face. Really. Truly. 

“I’m saying you’re--”

So Chan does just that. Using his sudden burst of ninety-nine proof energy, Chan wraps his arms around Changbin’s slim waist, tug him close and rolls them over. The slight rotation of their bodies makes his head spin. The kiss is misaligned, and has far too much tongue. In that moment, when he can feel spit, most of it his trail from the corner of his mouth, Chan is reminded that he’s  _ very  _ drunk. Chan slumps forward onto his boyfriend until their entire bodies are flush with one another and his whole weight is supported by Changbin. 

“Oof--” Changbin slaps at his shoulder at the added weight, and Chan  _ knows  _ that he should move but his body just won’t comply. “You’re making it really hard to take advantage of you. You know that?” 

The familiar feeling of Changbin wrapping one leg around his knees is accompanied, just as he expected, by the feeling of Changbin throwing his weight into his shoulder and rolling them back over.  Now, Changbin has Chan pinned to the bed.  Deft hands move to undo the buttons on his shirt. 

“Oh, I like where this is going,” Chan giggles and grinds his dick, half hard through his dress slacks against Changbin’s ass. Let’s be real, he’s had a hard on since Changbin pushed him down into the seat of the Nova. Tried to hint at it subtly when he tongue fucked Changbin’s ear in interstate traffic. 

Changbin, because he’s the best fucking boyfriend in the history of ever, doesn’t skip a beat. Just grinds down on his dick with his ass, “good. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to keep it up.” 

Changbin’s hair is mussed, as is his shirt. Cheeks flushed, the way that they always get right before they fuck. God his boyfriend is so fucking hot. “God, you’re so fucking hot.” 

Changbin takes the compliment as some kind of dare. Takes the bud of his left nipple between his fingers pinch-rolls the tender nub of skin with a satisfied grin. The noise that slips from his throat would be embarrassing, if it didn’t make Changbin’s grin grow wider. 

“You have a scratch on your stomach from where we fucking ate it diving into the bush.” Changbin traces a line across his stomach, and his expression matches. Mouth pulled into a firm line, eyebrows knit as he brushes the stinging red skin near, but not quite on the wound, bringing the sting of pain into his consciousness for the very first time. 

Quickly and softly, Changbin brushes his lips against the irritated skin. 

‘It feels better now.” 

“Hm,” but Changbin’s already moved on. Instead of unbuttoning his own shirt, he pulls it up over his own head. Makes quick work of the button and zipper of his pants. Changbin unpins him from the mattress, and he whines in protest. 

“I have to get us naked Chan.” 

“That makes  _ so  _ much sense. Sorry for being drunk. For being useless and drunk.” 

“You gonna make sure that I cum?” Changbin takes this moment to undo his belt, his button, and his zipper. From his briefs he frees his cock angry red with neglect and leaking pre-cum. 

“Holy shit Changbin.” It’s always so amazing, how Changbin gets so worked up over so very little. “Hell yeah.” 

Only after he’s completely naked does Changbin turn his attention back to Chan. He tugs at the cloth at his ankles. Chan tries, but isn’t so sure that he helps. His body feels stuck to the bed and canting his hips upward in that fluid, practiced motion that they know so well seems so impossible right now. 

“Then you can keep being a sexy sack of potatoes,” Changbin frees him from his pants in one final tug, pulling his feet out of the ankles, turning the pants inside out completely. 

Then, Changbin takes his rightful place back on top, keeping Chan pinned down with kisses now are equally sloppy and wet with shaky and uncoordinated enthusiasm. 

“Changbin.” his fingers ghost tentatively against smooth skin and compact muscle. He’s so used to making sure that Changbin doesn’t fall asleep in his clothes, and carrying him home or to the car when he complains that his platformed Doc Martens hurt his feet that the way that Changbin looks at him, with simultaneous hunger and tenderness feels out of place. And it’s not that he wants to correct it. Quite the opposite. He’s with Changbin, and so that makes it okay. It's just that he wants Changbin to know that he’s grateful. 

Somehow, to their benefit, Changbin’s found an ancient, nearly empty bottle of KY. The label faded and the bottle dented. Because he can probably count on one hand the amount of times in two years they’ve fucked at Changbin’s house. 

Somehow, against all odds, Changbin found a condom. Probably the one tucked into his wallet, made accessible to Changbin after it fell out of his pants pockets. “Changbin.” Changbin has never...And even though he’s thought about it before, it’s almost like they have permission now. 

“What is it?” Chan, what do you want?” 

Chan jostles Changbin on his lap slightly as he leans up to slot his lips over Changbin’s one more time. “What if we didn’t? ” 

Changbin laughs, dark and acerbic. Tears the foil wrapper with his teeth in response. “Not tonight,” and then quickly, like he knows that Chan is disappointed. “I didn’t plan for that.” 

He’d tell Changbin that he didn’t care. He’s drunk after all, and in being drunk, he’s made a lot of questionable decisions tonight. But Changbin moves too fast. Rolls the condom down the length of his cock, slicks him up with more lube, and impales himself on his cock before he even has the chance to think about how thick and foreign the latex barrier feels between them. 

Matching pressure of Changbin sitting on his cock, Changbin captures his lips in a bruising and demanding kiss and doesn’t let go. When one kiss ends, another begins. Hungry kisses interrupted by softer kisses along the line of his jaw, fade back into the smoldering feeling of Changbin’s mouth against the hollow of his throat. Changbin has a very special kind of power. Even though he’s sitting on Chan’s dick, it feels like Chan’s the one getting fucked. Feels like Chan’s the one who has to get used to force that is Changbin’s body squeezing him vice tight. Like Changbin’s the one who has to hold back, despite the raw want that trembles beneath his smooth skin. 

Syrupy drunk nonsense pours from his mouth and into Changbin’s ear, and he can only hope that he forgets it all by morning “Perfect--Sexy--Love you--Cool.” Can’t help it though. 

Of course it feels impossibly good when Changbin envelops him over and over and over again. Of course he gets lost in the rhythm of Changbin’s body. But it still comes as a surprise when his own body draws up too tight all too soon and he’s cumming. Spilling first in the reservoir of the condom, and then finishing on the cleft of Changbin’s ass when he pulls the condom off and jerks him to completion. 

It feels so much better. Freed from the thin latex sleeve, it feels like Chan’s body can breathe again. It feels so foreign and almost wrong, not cumming deep inside of Changbin’s body. And it happens much too soon, like he bust before he even remembered to move his sluggish limbs and jerk Changbin off. 

“C’mere.” Changbin scoots forward, but it isn’t enough. “Chan--” The prior caution that Chan held in the tentative tips of his fingers is thrown down onto the ground. Shattered into a thousand or more pieces, he pulls Changbin upward so that he’s all but straddling his face. The tip of Changbin’s cock guided into his mouth by drunken luck and foolish desire. 

“Fuck--Chan--Ah.”

At the very least, he’s making good on his promise to make Changbin cum. Changbin reassures him when he threads his fingers through his hair and tugs when he swipes his tongue  _ just  _ right. Changbin cums with a grunt across his lower lips and his throat. 

Afterward, Changbin wipes him clean with a damp towel. Rubs Neosporin on to the abrasion on his stomach. Finds another one on his elbow, and puts Bandaids onto both. Does this, because he loves him. 

Despite this, he can’t feel like he’s fucked up somehow. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“No,” Changbin responds without even asking for clarification, because he already knows. “I want you to drink this water.” Changbin offers him room temperature tap water in a painted Pizza Hut glass. “Do you want to go look at some apartments tomorrow?” Changbin asks, and then adds quickly, “assuming you’re not dead?” 

“Yes.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The only thing worse than waking up with a sandpaper dry mouth and booming headache, is waking up with a sandpaper dry mouth and headache  _ alone.  _ Reaching through the darkness with heavy lidded eyes, Chan does not find a body of smoldering hot, compact muscle next to him. No perfectly shaped crook of the neck to bury his face into. No thick black hair to tickle his nose. 

Just cold metal coins and crumpled envelopes.  _ Weird.  _

Fully expecting to jump out of his lofted bed and onto the floor, Chan leaps of the edge only for his feet to slam into the carpeted floor with a  _ thunk.  _

Oh. 

Bruce Lee poster on one wall, map of Korea on the other. Blurred vision clearing rapidly, it’s obvious that he’s not in his room at home. Which means, that for the very first time in almost two years, he’s spent the night at Changbin’s house. 

_ Oh.  _

Oh fuck. No time to think through the implications. His body, like a snobby rich kid from the valley shopping at the beach convenience store, makes a half dozen demands, each of which  _ should  _ be completed first. 

Chan hastily throws on a discarded pair of underwear from the floor, not really checking to see whether or not they belong to him or to Changbin. Finds his wrinkled white button down on the floor and throws it on, no time for buttoning it, he pulls each side tight over his chest and holds the shirt into place with tightly crossed arms. 

Pulls the underwear back down before he even manages to close the bathroom door all the way. As he continues to walk his black briefs are surrendered to the celery green bath mat. 

Slam the lid upward with a too loud  _ clack.  _ God damn, he’s going to wake everyone up with his shame, but nevertheless a sense of relief shivers down his spine as the pressure in his bladder lessens. Oh  _ god  _ that feels amazing. 

When the stream doesn’t lessen, he shifts his position so that he stands facing the toilet dick in hand, head resting in the crook of his elbow against the wall. There’s a bandaid slapped across his stomach, the same place last night where Changbin kissed the scraped red skin. 

After pissing for what  _ seems  _ like hours, Chan is finally able to shake his cock and shamefully retrieve his briefs from the floor.

Chan washes his hands with sterile smelling orange Dial soap and then cups his hands to his face in order to take in long draughts of tap water, stagnant taste of city plumbing on his tongue, but the acrid flavor is mild in comparison to the taste of being parched. 

The pipes groan in protest when he turns off the sink. 

Better, but there’s still  _ so  _ much more to do before his body feels normal again. Up next, find Changbin. After that, find his pants. Then a breakfast burrito and an unflavored bottle of Pedialyte. M _ aybe  _ if he’s lucky, and he didn’t say anything too stupid when he was drunk last night, he can get a hungover blow job in the Nova. 

The first thing that he sees when he exits the bathroom, isn’t sure  _ how  _ he could’ve missed the sight when he walked past, is Changbin laying stomach down, knees curled up to his middle on the sofa. A faded sheet is draped across his chest, but his t-shirt rides up high exposing a soft swath of skin. His mouth is open slightly. Hair fluffy and covering his eyes. 

It's a comfort level thing. A never spent the night at his house before thing. 

Chan has to wonder, did Changbin wait for him to fall asleep? The details are fuzzy. Or, did he simply come lie out here after he cleaned himself off? Watch Nick at Night reruns until sleep edged out consciousness. Or did they spend the night intricately folded together until Changbin left at the very last minute for the purpose of keeping up appearances? 

The second thing that he sees, more jarring than Changbin on the sofa, is the sight of Mrs. Seo seated at the kitchen table, burning cigarette in hand. Spread around her on the table, a cascade of printed paper and leaflets. To her left, a printing calculator, and just behind it, a steaming cup of coffee. 

“Good morning Chan,” but she doesn’t once look up from the roll of paper at the calculator. “Feeling alright?” 

“Yeah, uh,” Oh god. Chan scrambles to fix a few buttons on his shirt because his nipples are absolutely out. Wonderful. Fantastic. “Thanks for letting me come lie down. I uh,” so. This is what an out of body experience feels like. For a moment his headache is gone, and the hot blush across his skin doesn’t even burn with shame. All he can do is experience, with quiet awareness, every mind numbingly stupid thing that he says and does in front of his boyfriend’s mother. “Usually am the one taking care of Changbin. I mean. I uh-don’t drink that often.”    


In that moment, he’s acutely aware of how badly he’s pitted out his shirt with hangover sweat.

“I see,” eyes still glued to the thin printed paper. Her eyes look over the black lacquer rim of her glasses. “Coffee then?” 

Chan hates coffee more than most things, but in his defense the list of things that he could even begin to say that he hates is quite short. More than incomplete carbohydrates, and added sugars, and rush hour traffic. But, what’s he going to do? Say no after sleeping off the drunkest he’s ever been at her house? 

“Sure.” So he tugs himself out of the entryway between the living room and the kitchen, over to the kitchen cabinets. 

From the cupboard he extracts a painted glass mug bearing the morose face of Garfield the cat. Pouring coffee from the carafe, he considers what will be worse. Acrid black Cafe Bustelo, or Cafe Bustelo diluted with the hazelnut cream syrup that Changbin’s mom has on the counter next to a spoon on a soaked through paper napkin. 

In the end, he opts for the dairy-free creamer. 

“So I understand that you boys are looking for an apartment?” 

“Um,” Chan sputters once again. The spoon clinks sharply on the ceramic of the mug. “Yeah.” 

“You know, I don’t mean to brag, pride gives a person wrinkles you know. But maybe it’s alright if it’s to help someone else.” She takes a long drag of her cigarette and blue gray smoke unfurl frames her face. “I’m one of the best realtors for my company.” Chan knows, but without really knowing. Changbin’s family was able to move from a cramped apartment to a home relatively quickly. Quickly only happens in this city if you happen to have money. “I know every single house. Duplex. The apartments too.” 

From her stack of papers she procures a stapled packet of paper and waves it at Chan. Chan closes the distance between the counter and the table. 

“So these are all in your price range, but you know they’re kind of far. Or, they’re not in the best areas.” She flips the page and reveals a page littered in pink and yellow highlighter. “Now these. These these are better, but you know smaller.” 

Chan raises the mug to his mouth and takes the smallest sip of coffee that he can manage without wincing. 

“Like for example, this one is actually about a block away. Wouldn’t that be nice if you boys were still close?” 

Caught between disbelief and his throat, Chan sputters and coughs, coffee spilling out over the rim of the mug. Chan hurries to mop it up with the bottom of his sock. 

“Oh, or this one. This one’s in our old complex actually. This one too. On Wilshire. But you should go look at them. You know. My friend is a leasing agent for this rental company,” she thrusts the stapled paper packet into his hand. 

“Sure thanks,” his voice cracks. 

Chan walks back out into the living room to find Changbin seated upright, but anything other than awake. His small frame sinks into the gap between the green and off white plaid sofa. His mussed hair sticks out from odd angles making a scribbled halo around his face. Although his eyes are barely open, he reaches for the mug of coffee in Chan’s hand. 

Chan sinks down into the sofa next to him. Changbin smells like sweat and yesterday’s cologne and his body feels so warm. 

Mind still clouded by sleep, Changbin doesn’t pull away. Chan loves the feeling. 

“What do you have?” 

Chan flips through the packet. The first one doesn’t even register. Just a mistake. The second a coincidence. But by the time he’s looked at five or more listings it’s obvious that it’s intentional. Each and every single one of these listings are one bedroom apartments. "Some suggestions from your mom."

* * *

The only thing better than the idea of having sex as loud as they want, with no real reprocussion other than maybe someone beating against the drywall, is the idea that they won’t get pulled into errands and tasks without provocation. Wouldn’t that be nice? Take his shoes off at the door and not do a goddamn thing? He really can't imagine. 

Chan might be doing the eight to five thing like a big boy now, but it doesn’t mean he can escape the indentured servitude of the Bang family enterprises. Saturdays are spent exchanging cash for rental surfboards that haven’t been waxed in months. Night times are spent checking guest passports at the desk over dinner. 

Tonight, Chan offered to drop off the night deposit from the convenience store. 

It’s not even like they ask most of the time. It’s automatic, and Changbin does it too. After Chan took the sticky coated canvas bag filled with cash, he came upstairs to take a shower only to find Chan’s dad at the desk overwhelmed at the desk by a gaggle of very loud Scottish girls. Didn’t think twice about showing them to their rooms. 

With the chaos moved from the common room to the mixed dorm upstairs, there’s nothing to do other than sink into the navy of the sofa and wait for Chan to come home. 

On the screen, he watches the static streaked copy of  _ Way of the Dragon  _ that he’s seen a thousand times or more. The box of old kung-fu movies by the television, just like helping out with tasks without asking, has become automatic. As he crosses and uncrosses his eyes, forcing the movie out of focus and pulling it back in, the screen flashes back and forth from nebulous to nunchucks. Maybe, maybe if he thinks about it hard enough, Chan will read his mind and pick up fried chicken for dinner so they don't have to cook. 

Well, Chan won’t have to cook and Changbin won’t have to set the table with mismatched plates at the very last second. 

“I haven’t seen this one in awhile,” Chan’s father comments across the room from the main desk. 

Really? He’s probably watched the movie twice this week. Not all at once, but the opening scene on Saturday mornings when he and Chan are sitting on the sofa not really talking, and not really touching, but existing, and doing it together. The middle arc on a Tuesday morning, which is supposed to be his day off, but it doesn’t mean much these days. Not when Chan’s working. The end the next night when neither of them want to go to bed, and neither of them want to watch infomercials. 

Then again, Chan’s dad has always been blissfully unaware. “It’s good. Kind of. I don’t know. It makes me think of  _ Texas Ranger.”  _

At the desk, the printer makes a heaving noise. 

“Oh no.” 

Automatic, and without being asked, Changbin jumps up from the sofa and ducks behind the desk. “You kind of have to,” Changbin flips up the front panel to pry the jammed paper out of the machine. “It doesn’t like only a few pages in the tray.” Snapping the panel closed, he jams the reset button on the front. A list of current guests prints off perfectly. “You have to keep it full. Here.”

“Thanks.” 

Almost like an afterthought, his eyes catch the row of post-its and coupons taped to the bottom of the computer monitor, and spilled out around the keyboard. Among them are several Polaroids from the wedding. One of Mrs. Bang with the younger kids. A poorly centered photo of the bride and groom. But the one right next to it particularly catches his eye. 

While the other photos are oddly centered, or slightly fuzzy and out of focus, this one is surprisingly clear. Framed by thin white border, he and Chan stand next to each other at the bar. It’s hard to see, but Chan’s messy hair is parted with the shiny white garter. He’s smiling and holding two drinks. His own and Changbin’s. 

Changbin is fixing the lapels on Chan’s shirt and looking at him with a big dopey smile. Like Chan’s the only person in the world. 

“Oh,” Chan’s dad sees him looking at the photos. “That’s a good picture isn’t it?” 

“Yeah.” His throat feels cracked and dry. 

“I had the old Polaroid camera. You know, and the pictures were always grainy. I think this one has a better quality. I have to admit. I kind of wanted to keep it. We don’t have that many photos of you together.” 

That’s weird. Why would Chan’s parents even care if they had pictures of them together? 

“But Yumi says that you two should have it. I guess I can always take more.” 

For a moment, Changbin doesn’t respond. He picks up the photo at the place where the white border is especially thick. At the place where the chemicals were squeezed onto paper and etched their images into place. 

Chan’s dad didn’t learn his name until they’d been seeing each other for almost a year. Last week he locked the keys in the Volvo while it was double parked and he, Changbin and Chan spent over an hour trying to unlock it with a bent coat hanger. Changbin’s job was directing traffic. Four star space cadet, but this picture is so obvious. He’s absent minded, not stupid. 

The heavy sound of steps echo up the hallway interrupting whatever else might have been said between them. Chan’s voice, light and full of laughter calls to him. “Changbin, I got us chicken and rice!” 

Changbin cups the photo in the palm of his hand, careful not to bend the paper. “Thanks.” 

* * *

Shielded from the prying eyes of others by the dark blanket of night and the cries of the world muted by the roll-roar of the ocean, he’s alone with Changbin. Alone alone, unlike when they're stealing kisses and cup ramen in the kitchen at two in the morning. Unlike when they're in Chan's room with a wall on either side shielding them from a dozen or more people. Like sea glass extracted from the surgery by chance, the feeling is rare, but the near future holds the promise that this will very soon be the norm. Chan Hope's that, like sea glass, the feeling will still keep its wondrous shine no matter how many shards he collects.

Chan sits in the sand. Changbin between his legs, his arms wrapped around Changbin’s middle. His lips brush against a thick black beanie that Chan is fairly certain was his to begin with. 

They’ve spent plenty of nights like this out on the beach, watching as families pack up their beach blankets and umbrellas until there’s no one left but them and the drunks. Watching as the lights from the pier dim booth by booth and ride by ride but they remain. But tonight it feels so suiting that they’re the last ones out on the beach. 

“Chan?” Changbin’s voice interrupts their comfortable silence. “Your mom isn’t going to expect me to make food for Chuseok is she?” 

Chan smiles into the thick fabric of the beanie, but does not laugh out loud. Recognizes immediately for what it is. 

Changbin wants permission to be vulnerable without ever posing a question. 

“Absolutely Changbin _ .  _ The soup, the meat, no less than a half dozen side dishes. I mean it’s tradition right? _ ”  _ That whoever commits themselves to a family’s eldest son takes care of the intricate trappings of tradition, “All of it from scratch, like my mom makes of course. I’m sure she’d teach you.”

“What, the number to Dumpling House?” Changbin laughs. His mom is almost, but not quite, as clueless as Changbin in the kitchen and so tradition is so often eschewed for convenience. 

“Yeah, I mean, the number is 8859. What if you get it confused and dial  _ 8895.”  _

“It goes to a laundromat. I know because I do that all the time.” Changbin supplies. 

“Then it should be fine then, shouldn’t it?” 

Changbin mulls over the acceptability of this response in a long silence. Finding it adequate, he speaks his mind. “Everybody fucking knows Chan.” 

The salt tastes heavy on his tongue. The beach beneath their bodies, quicksand in which he becomes trapped. Instinctively, his grasp around Changbin tightens. “It seems that way, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s so much weirder than thing that I expected. Like,” Changbin sighs in frustration. For a person that likes to talk a mile a minute, he hates, more than anything when words don’t come to him quickly enough. “What do we do next Chan?” 

“I think we load up our cars tomorrow with boxes and move in together.” 

“You know what I mean. I mean--” 

Chan does. Do they keep sitting a safe distance apart from each other on the sofa? Do they tuck back into their pockets the litany of intimate touches and looks that they engage in a thousand or more times a day when they’re around their families? Will they even be able to do that once they start living together? “Do we have to know right now?” 

“Maybe not.” And then abruptly, but not at all changing the subject, “can’t believe this is my last night in Venice.” 

“I know what you mean,” Chan responds. “Feels weird. Nothing ever really changes. The rides, and the rental stalls, and the beach, will still be here even if I’m not down here every day.” 

“No,” Changbin disagrees. “Everything changes so quickly, and so constantly, but you never really notice because it’s so big, and we’re so small. So small, no one will notice the guy that used to work at the sunglasses stand moved to the convenience store and the guy that moved to the convenience store left and got a real job.” 

"So what's changing? Us, or everything around us?"

At that, Changbin has no response. At least, not with words. How can he when he's asked himself the same thing a thousand or more times and has yet to find an answer? Instead, he cranes his neck back to kiss Chan. Chan not only returns the kiss, but continues it, stretching a chaste peck into the kind of long, lingering kiss, truly devoid of urgency, that only happens when two people are drenched with uncertainty and desperate for an anchor. 

* * *

“None of the outlets in the bathroom work.” Droplets of water fall from the dampened ends of his hair, trail across his nape and uncomfortably caress the hollows of his shoulder blades. The bottom of his feet are still damp, and he can feel the uncomfortable sensation of dirt, tracked across the floor, stuck to his clean feet already. 

Changbin reports the broken outlets to Chan like he can do a goddamn thing about it. What would he do? Tell the super? Chan mentioned the busted out screen door and the super told them with cigar stained breath to tack a towel over the screen, “or something.” 

But they actually fucking did it. Emptied all the money from his savings account and put it into Chan’s checking so the deposit and first month’s rent wouldn’t bounce. 

“Hm,” Chan looks up at him with heavy lidded eyes and half cocked smile. A king upon a throne hard earned, Chan’s sprawled out upon the mattress they spent two hours trying to strap onto the roof of the Nova and take down the freeway that morning. Propped up against the wall when Changbin got into the shower, now the mattress has faded, rummage sale sheets pulled onto the corner. He’s placed the window air conditioner on it’s precarious place upon the windowsill. 

He’s so used to lethargic ceiling fans that spread the heat around. The artificial cool air meets with the damp water droplets upon his body creating piqued goose flesh. Never thought that he’d feel so cold in August. 

Hair mussed and miffed pink lines across his face from the wrinkles in the linens, Chan cracks a sleepy, sheepish smile. "So glad I went through all those boxes to find the hair drier then." Patting the spot on the bed, left hand side and closest to the wall, Chan beckons, “Come lay down with me.”

That's going to be  _ his _ side of the bed now from now on. 

"Lazy." But now he doesn’t feel quite so upset that Chan didn’t follow him into the shower. Not when the bed looks so inviting. Changbin, true to himself, does the opposite of what he says. Snapping the towel from around his waist and exposing the rest of his body, cool air collides with hot damp skin between his legs. 

As an afterthought, the threadbare, stolen hostel towel gets tossed to the splintered hardwood floor.

The journey from where he stands at the foot of the bed to the mattress feels like a thousand miles because they don't have a box spring and they sure as hell don't have a bedframe. Fuck, it took them like three months to pay off a mattress on layaway. 

At least he doesn't have to worry about falling out of Chan's lofted bed anymore. 

“Not true. I was busy.” Chan’s eyes are still bleary with almost-sleep, but he perks up as soon as Changbin’s knees hit the faded sheets. Sitting up to greet him, he pulls Changbin down into bed atop his chest. Hands, rough from years and years of constant work roam his body. Changbin wishes, more than anything, that Chan’s touch will always drag against his skin because it feels like no one elses’ ever has. Because Chan’s touch always lingers, leaving the implication of what’s to come next upon is left on the expanse of his back, down his flanks, and the firm muscle of his ass. 

“So was I,” Changbin responds. 

Changbin wants him right now, but not in the way that he wants Chan when they’re in his parents’ house in Koreatown. Because there, he wants him like Chan is an addiction. Wants him, despite the fact that his chest always feels tight with panic when they’re there. Wants him, but not in the way that he wants him when they’re in the hostel in Venice. There, sex exists in the margins of their lives before the alarm goes off for work and the moments between brushing their teeth and passing out for the night. Wants him, but not in the way that he wants him in the bathhouses of West Hollywood where they both can get off on lingering eyes and the fact that everyone in the room wants them and they'll only have each other. 

No, the way that he wants Chan in a stiflingly small studio in Echo Park is different. Hidden away and private in a way that they’ve never been able to be before. Open, to the point of being defiant, in a way that they‘ve never been able to be before. 

Chan’s body always runs hot. But now, instead of stifling him in the summer heat, the warmth is welcome against the cold conditioned air. Kissing Chan Feels different too. His lips are still chapped from the sun and the sand. Just like always, Changbin initiates, but Chan still quickly takes over, running his tongue over the line of his lips. Waits for Changbin to grow impatient and plunge his tongue in before pulling back and playfully biting his lower lip. 

Exactly the same, but Changbin  _ knows  _ that it's different. The parts of his mind that were occupied by paranoia in the past are free to feel all of Chan now. 

"I can tell." Chan turns them over so that he's on top and Changbin lies on his back. Languidly, Chan runs his fingertips from the inside of his thigh, dips them into the v of his hips, purposefully avoiding his cock. After all, they have all the time in the world.

Swear to God he can feel Chan tremble when he touches his smooth, fresh shaven skin. 

Chan wants him, in a dilapidated tenement building worthy of condemnation. The explanation, simple. Because it’s theirs. Because it’s like they’re almost free. 

More exciting than the feel of Chan’s hands upon his skin is the electric thrill of knowing that it feels new for Chan too. 

Changbin always heard that as time goes on, you want each other less. Fuck less. Maybe that’s true when everyone else expects  _ something  _ from  _ your _ wanting _ .  _ A wedding in a nice white little chapel. A pudgy baby with red round cheeks. 

For them, what happens next isn’t so concrete. 

All that he knows, adamantly so, is that he and Chan are going to keep on wanting each other. 

“This is really cute,” and Chan takes this opportunity to run his hand up the smooth swath of skin while he catches the lobe of Changbin’s ear between his teeth, and  _ fuck.  _ Chan knows how that makes him go wild. Arch his back, and muss his hair as he writhes against the pillow. 

“Ah-” 

Chan doesn’t even know yet. During the times that his boyfriend has questioned whether or not he loves him, if he’s faithful, if they belong together, Changbin has never told him the true depths of his love. Because douching in a hostel bathroom stall with a sort of broken lock is a unique kind of horrible. Chan doesn’t even know, and never will know that they have a bathroom with real walls. The lock doesn’t work, but that is so much less important when it’s used only by two people. 

Another kiss, viscous and slow, it gives Changbin the chance to come back with a barb. Not cause he can’t handle the sugary sweet, but because Chan likes the bitter black. 

“Thanks, I used your razor.” Changbin says this as he rucks the hem of Chan’s sweat stained shirt upwards and touches the firm muscles in his back. 

Honestly? He lives for moments like this. Cracks in Chan’s careful and constant meticulousness. Loves the thick scent of musk and the feeling of muscle. 

“I wanna do it to you next time.” Chan’s switched to the pads of his thumbs now, sitting between his legs and rubbing in slow circles the smooth places on his skin before running his fingers over the asymmetrical landing strip he’d attempted while running out of Barbasol. As if his sense of touch were heightened, his skin glows with Chan’s touch. 

Chan hasn’t even touched his dick yet, and he’s already getting hard. 

“Yeah? That’s kind of hot.” 

“Yeah,” his voice sounds shaky, and maybe Chan’s just talking dirty, but why would he say no? They can do whatever they want now. 

“I’ll shave you real smooth, and then,” Chan rakes his hand back upwards. 

Changbin’s stomach flutters in response. A noise, pitched and needy, slides awkwardly off of his tongue. 

His reaction is immediate. Conditioned by night after night in someone else’s space. Bite his lip and swear that it won’t happen again. 

Chan’s reaction is immediate. Looking at him with wild, blown wide eyes. “You don’t have to be quiet.” Adding quickly, “ _ Please _ don’t be quiet, Changbin,” and it’s followed by more contact. More searing hot touches wherever skin meets skin. 

Even though they’re not in a cramped bedroom in Venice where no less than a dozen people could hear them at any moment, self consciousness ebbs its way into Changbin’s mind and makes his ears burn hot. Makes him over analyze every little thing that Chan does to make him feel good. Picking it apart until he can find a reason  _ not  _ to love the feeling of Chan touching him. 

He can feel the crimson blush creep across his face, pulse in his ears, and dust his chest. 

For a fraction of a second, Chan stills beside him. Anyone else would miss it, but not him. A single, adept finger hooks underneath his chin and tilts Changbin’s head so that they face one another. 

There’s absolutely nothing he can conceal from Chan, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. Maybe if he keeps his eyes screwed shut he won’t have to face him, but they both know that’s bullshit. 

“Changbin.” Chan’s voice is both gentle and unwavering. 

Opening his eyes, the world slowly comes back into view for Changbin, fuzzy color by fuzzy color, the honey brown of Chan’s eyes, and the white of his skin, and the gold of his hair. Chan seals his lips over Changbin’s own. His tongue traces the line of his lower lip tenderly before he takes the tender flesh between his teeth and tugs gently. 

He’s been at Chan’s mercy so many times before, and yet this time he truly feels that Chan will not grant it. 

Fingers thread through his soaked through hair, sinful hot mouth press into the damp crevice of his neck. Kiss biting all the way up to the lobe of his ear all the while droplets of water sl-ide slowly down his skin and pool in the divot of his collar bones. 

“Just wanna make you feel good.” Chan murmurs this into the juncture of his neck as if it were a prayer. The sensation forces another horrible sound from Changbin’s mouth before he can stop it. 

“Just,” so desperate to relieve the pressure, Changbin responds the only way that he knows how. Learned in taunting, Saturday morning wrestling matches, their version of a slow and lazy fuck. Hooking his leg in the corner of Chan’s bent knee he rocks them to the side and lazily throws his weight back on top of Chan. “Just keep talking to me.” 

But he doesn’t even give Chan a chance because he has to. Has to kiss him. Their lips misalign, Changbin’s lower lip brushing against Chan’s upper. Course correct, and he’s sighing into another open mouthed kiss. “We fucked in complete silence every night for two years. Now you want me to moan like a porn star.”

“Ah no. Now I feel self conscious.” Chan’s body confirms it. Hot blush spread across his face. And just like that, Changbin transfers his insecurity to Chan. That red blush gives him strength. Strength to reveal a matching patch of red upon Chan’s chest when Changbin yanks his shirt off in between wet kisses that have no end. 

"Why you shy babe?" Changbin breaks their comfortable Korean for his thickly accented, yet comfortable English. Rubs the pad of his thumb in slow circles over Chan's nipples and flick the nub of skin until it’s tender and pert. Soothe it over with his tongue, cause he’s not gonna do Chan dirty like that. Chan’s skin tastes like sour salt sweat.

And when Chan's moaning, mumbled and needy, “Bin-ah-Changbin,” it's like permission. Permission to bring the filthy person that he leaves at the bathhouse home. 

Hand trailing down Chan's body, Changbin takes the time to palm Chan’s semi through nylon fabric that feels simultaneously silken and rough. Glide and snag. Again. Glide and sn-ag. Repeat this motion over and over until he’s caused a sticky damp patch to appear on the front. The whole time, Chan alternates between stifled gasps and letting the roar of the window air conditioner swallow up his sighs. 

It only spurns Changbin on more. How typical it is of him to find strength, but only after Chan has validated his fears by feeling them too. Changbin hooks his fingers into the elastic of Chan’s double knotted basketball shorts and pulls them downward. Cock bobbing free, Changbin traces a prominent blue vein on the underside of his boyfriend’s dick. 

Surely he’s felt it twitch in his mouth or traced it before, or seen it in the faint light through the curtains drawn tight in Chan’s old room, but it looks so strange and new  _ right now _ . 

It’s like relearning how to fuck all over again. 

So, timid-shy he runs the tip of his finger over it once more, starting near the base and moving upward just  _ above  _ the ridge of Chan’s cock, but never quite touching the sensitive red head. 

Like a cat with a moth caught between his paws, Changbin toys with Chan. Mirroring his fascinated flutter touches on the vein, he languidly slides Chan’s foreskin up over the glans and then back down. The pad of his thumb glides over a slick pearl of pre-cum at the tip. 

Like a lap dog terrorizing a wolf, Changbin’s upper hand is simply an illusion. Something easily reneged by Chan at any given time. 

Because Chan’s always been a little bigger and a little stronger than him. Probably always will be no matter how much Changbin lies through his teeth and insists that his biceps are larger. That he can leg press more. Chan envelops him in a tight embrace to change their positions. “You’re not playing fair. Are you?”

Unlike Chan, who rolled over pliantly, Changbin’s body goes rigid. Normally, he’d fight back. Do anything to tease Chan just a little bit longer. Anything to make Chan just a little bit more desperate. But he wants Chan so badly. The best retort he can muster is a husked, “you're not either.” 

Although their mouths slot together perfectly, their bodies misalign completely. In an attempt to draw his legs up to his body and roll back over to escape Chan, his knee gets caught against Chan’s chest. In an attempt to maintain contact, Chan’s grasped onto his wrists, hard. 

Now, he fitfully squirms beneath his boyfriend because, no matter how badly he wants it, no matter how nicely Chan asked for it, he’s not sure if he’s ready.

Because he knows that even though, for them, the script is unwritten, certain rules still apply. Little things carry immense implications. How different are little gold rings from little silver keys on souvenir Venice keyrings? Where in the middle does that little ring of latex fit in-between? Changbin isn’t really certain. Isn’t really sure if he  _ wants  _ to know.

Chan pins his right arm to the mattress. Then, because he wants to, because he wants Chan, he yields to him. Lets Chan pin his other arm above his head. 

Chan looms over him now with the same dark, possessive expression that he’s fallen for a thousand times over, it’s easy, natural even to let his legs fall to the side and let Chan settle in between them. 

Although the strain in his arms must make his muscles burn, Chan holds him firmly into place while dropping his head low and latching onto a swath of skin at the hollow of his throat. The contact of lips, almost tender, is quickly exchanged for the stinging pressure of teeth. So sudden and so sharp that it takes his breath away. Only when a shaky whimper escapes from his mouth does Chan relent. Alternating between grazing his teeth indirectly against the skin, and abusing him further with blunt pressure from biting back down directly. 

Just like Chan knows that he likes. 

Changbin is no stranger to the lopsided smirk that Chan wears. Dripping in satisfaction, he knows that he has Changbin exactly where he wants him. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Softer now, when their lips meet, but no less laden with need. Chanbin understands this kind of kiss well. They’ve both put aside the bravado, and they both understand just how much each wants the other, how scared they both are because of it. Truly as if they kiss for the first time since Changbin joined Chan in bed. 

Chan works his way down Changbin’s body. Taking the time to lap at the crescent divots of his collar bones, and graze his teeth against his nipples, and soothe each flutter of his stomach with a kiss. 

"You're already really hard." Chan takes the head of his cock between the tips of his fingers. The touch is feather light but it makes Changbin buck his hips upward into the touch nonetheless. "I've barely touched you." 

"I really wanna fuck-ah" 

Chan smears a bead of precum across the tip of his cock before enveloping him in the palm of his hand and twisting downward just like he knows that he likes. “We will. But you wanna play a little bit first right? Wouldn’t have made yourself look so pretty if you didn’t.” 

“You have no idea.” Because even though having Chan’s hand on his dick feels so nice, it’s not what he wants right now. Not by a long shot. 

Chan understands, almost immediately. Grabbing his hips, “roll over baby.” From the space between the baseboard and the mattress Chan extracts the bottle of lubricant. And the thought of Chan rummaging through the many open cardboard boxes scattered throughout the room to find it so that he was  _ ready  _ for Changbin to get done with the shower is sexier than it should be. 

Changbin complies immediately, turning over onto his stomach. 

Shell of his ears flush cherry red when Chan parts the cleft of his ass with his fingers while his mouth simultaneously curls into a smirk. 

“Oh wow,” Binnie. “You did this for me?” rough calloused fingertip grazes his hole. It’s probably so puffy-red obvious now, that he spent so much time in the bathroom getting himself perfectly clean. 

Changbin can feel himself twitch at the contact, and he can feel the blush deepen, traveling down across his face and his chest. 

Chan teases him now, rubbing his finger in slow circles and spreading him with his thumbs. Fingertips pressing, but never quite breaching his hole. The whole thing maddening, because in his current position his cock is trapped in such a way that it’s pulled back between his legs. Can’t hump against the sheets, or grab at his own dick, and all he can do is wait for Chan to touch him.

Chan rubs the pad of his thumb along the underside of his cock exposed and vulnerable. 

“For you, and-ah,” Chan interrupts him with a splash of liquid slick between his legs and the delicious pressure of a single finger breaching his hole. “And for me. You always fuck me so good when I can do this.” 

“Sounds like a challenge.” For a moment, it sounds as if Chan has something more to say, but becomes unimportant when Chan focuses instead on rotating his wrist and curling his finger inside. Lost completely, when he presses his own cock down and fitfully rubs the tip against his ass cheeks smearing pre-cum everywhere. 

“It is.”

“Fuck, Changbin.” Chan shifts again on the mattress, lifting Changbin’s hips high in the air. Doesn’t register what is about to happen until he can feel the sensation of Chan’s tongue wet and demanding against his hole. 

“Chan--” He expected this. Wanted this, but it still comes as a surprise. 

The first lap of Chan’s tongue is is broad and overeager, “Binnie, please. I want to do this.” Because he knows, even in his excitement that Changbin is uncertain. 

“I’m okay.” Permission, reassurance, permission. Changbin will never grow used to asking for what he wants, but luckily Chan understands this.

Chan soon settles into a rhythm of slow presses of his tongue alternated by soft kisses at the base of his tailbone and mischievous grazes of teeth against his cheeks. On and on like this until Changbin’s hole, already pliable from before becomes absolutely filthy-wet. 

“Chan, please.” For what, he’s not certain. Because he doesn’t want Chan to stop, but he desperately wants Chan’s cock inside of him. 

Lucidity is edged out by the ruined feeling of desperation as Chan pushes his tongue in deeper inside _ ,  _ as if Changbin’s desperation were his own desperation. As if he were wholly hell-bent on wringing out every single noise, sharp and unashamed from Changbin. Like Changbin’s voice were a favorite song that he hasn’t heard on the radio for a very long time. Chan alternates between his fingers and his tongue, slipping his middle and index finger inside while continuing to lap at the rim. 

“Please what?” Crooking his fingers just  _ right  _ so that he can repeat the question this time with his body, and not his voice. 

His dick feels so heavy between his legs. Precome pools at the tip and drips downward onto the sheets in a shameless, constant stream. Pride isn’t a factor anymore. He knows that if he feels this fucked out and ruined, then Chan’s urgency much be far greater because Chan has  _ barely  _ allowed him to touch him. “Fuck me. Please fuck me.” 

Expecting greater protest, Changbin is truly surprised when Chan responds simply, “okay.” 

Loss of contact is a means to an end, but the sighs of protest come anyway. Chan swallows them up with needy kisses as he extracts a foil wrapper from that same space between the baseboard and the mattress. Chan offers him an out, for something that Changbin never even voiced aloud. 

“Hey,” Changbin looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with Chan in strange, diagonal, cross the bridge of the nose intimacy. “You love me?” 

Their bruised lips meet in a kiss, and then another, and then Chan is murmuring into his ear, without hesitation or fear, “Yeah.” 

Chan rolls the condom down his cock, and Changbin can feel the drag of latex against his hole as Chan shamelessly frots into the cleft of his ass. The rough drag never quite giving way to the smooth glide that he knows that can happen when skin meets with skin.

“Wait,” Changbin rolls to the side. Chan looks confused, almost hurt, but they both want this. “Take it off.” He says looking downward at the condom covering Chan’s dick. 

“Wait, really?” But he’s already tugging it off. 

“You wanted to. The other night--and--” 

“Okay,” 

Chan repositions them, by turning Changbin the rest of the way over onto his back, legs resting on top of Chan’s shoulders. It’s enough to make him almost regret it. Because when they fuck like this, his chest always feels tighter, his heart always beats faster, and now when he factors in what it is that they’re about to do, the weight of intimacy against him is almost too much. 

Chan, because he knows what he likes, fucks him in slow circular motions of his hips giving him time to adjust while simultaneously making him feel every bit of delicious friction while his body is still tense at the intrusion. 

Chan kisses him, and then kisses him again, and kisses him again for good measure, squeezing muscular skin and holding him close. 

When Chan asks, “good?” 

Changbin threads their fingers together and reassures him, “Good.” 

Chan slides almost all the way out, and then pushes back inside slowly. Gives him a few slow, experimental pumps before grinding to an abrupt halt. “How does it feel for you?” Chan breathes thickly into his ear. “Good?”

“Yeah.” because when has Chan’s dick been anything other than good? “Different,” followed by a laugh that makes his face flush hot, “but the same a little bit too.”

No different from the dozens of other times that they’ve fucked. No blaring siren identifying them as reckless and irresponsible. Chan’s cock still makes him feel full. Still makes him feel good. So good that he grinds his hips up against Chan, only for Chan to hold him firm into place. 

Only then does he realize that Chan waits now, not for Changbin to adjust to being filled but for himself. 

Completely different from the dozens of other times that they’ve fucked. He can feel every twitch of Chan’s dick. Like the inferno that builds between them every single time that they fuck could somehow be stoked into hotter, almost molten embers. 

“I feel like I’m gonna cum,” Chan confesses. 

“Your dick twitches so much--” and he knows that it sounds stupid but it’s the honest to god truth. 

“Your whole body tenses. Like,  _ everything  _ gets really tight.” 

“That’s embarrassing.” Changbin wants to hold still give him time to cool, and time to apply salve to all of the places their bodies burned from each other’s touch, but it’s all rekindled again in an instant.

“Nah, it’s kind of sexy.” Chan murmurs into his ear before latching onto an already tender spot on his neck and bites down until Changbin squirms against him. 

“You wouldn’t know the difference.” 

“What does that make you then?” Chan begins to roll his hips in slow, tentative thrusts. Legs wrap around his waist and pull him in deeper. His fingertips dig into the defined lines of Chan’s shoulder. Feels his fingernails bite into smooth flesh, and knows for a fact that he’s making marks on otherwise flawless porcelain skin. A secret shared between them, to be hidden underneath a plain white t-shirt later, makes him feel smug with satisfaction. 

Each time Chan sinks his cock all the way inside it hits just right, caressing that spot  _ inside.  _ Makes his cock twitch despite the fact that it’s tightly trapped between his and Chan’s stomachs. 

There’s no coming back from this. The closeness goes beyond tactile sensation, and transcends into something deeper. Something that he and Chan have been afraid to touch since the very beginning.

So when Chan asks, “hey. Is it okay if I? If I don’t pull out?” 

The thought of Chan pulling out and finishing on his stomach seems so unsatisfying. Changbin cannot respond in any way beyond a choked moan that’s all but drowned out by the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin. “Yeah-Yes.” 

Lost in warmth and wet, and free from friction, Chan fucks into Changbin at a brutal pace. Pulls out, almost completely, so that Changbin feels the ridge of his cock at his rim and tightens around him with desperation, only for Chan to slide all the way back in with a satisfied  _ smack.  _ Can feel the weight of Chan’s balls smack against his skin. 

If looks could burn then Changbin would immolate. Hunger still permeates his expression, but that expression has shifted. Calm. Serene. Deadly. A simple reminder that Changbin has always been at his mercy. 

Chan’s calloused hand wraps around his cock and jerks him off almost forcefully. 

“Cause you’re mine.” 

“Cause I’m yours.” 

“Fuck.” That’s all it takes. Chan’s back muscles tighten, thrusts become erratic. Changbin feels like a voyeur in his own body, the visceral clarity with which he can feel the first spurt of cum pumped into him, subsequent  _ twitch _ and more cum empty inside. 

His own orgasm rips through his body unanticipated and unannounced. His own cock pulses fitfully, against his stomach while Chan fucks him through it. 

* * *

“Hello?”

Changbin’s voice fades in and out as he walks back and forth from the main room of the apartment to the bathroom area where he’s currently stuffing their freshly laundered, questionably folded towels into the linen closet. The cordless phone receiver tucked into the crook of his shoulder between his ear and his plaid shirt. “I’m doing well. Thanks for asking. Especially since it’s been so long since we’ve seen one another.”

Chan himself stands at the sliver of counter space at their kitchenette, chopping up peppers and onions. He thinks they’re having stir-fry for dinner. Maybe. They’re kind of out of fish sauce, and they might have enough soy sauce, and Chan’s wondering what he can do with the copious bundle of plain red radishes that appeared in the bottom of the refrigerator seemingly out of thin air. 

“Yes, I’m coming to work tomorrow,” and only then does it become apparent that Changbin is speaking to Chan’s mother. “Well, on time is the goal you know.”

Changbin crowds into his space, pressing him against the counter. In sharp contrast angular tip of Changbin’s chin digs in to the soft crook of his neck while hands encircle his waist. “Yeah he’s here. Just a second.” Changbin shifts against him but doesn’t let go of the fabric of his shirt. 

The receiver rests on the space between Changbin’s collar bone and shoulder, waiting for him to pick it up. With a smile, Changbin explains, “Chan, it’s for you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell @ me on twitter @missbluniverse


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